


As long as it takes

by PlainJane



Series: John Watson's way [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gambling, John Watson POV, M/M, Misunderstanding, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, indecent proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anything Sherlock wants. All night. No strings attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

John sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing his hand over the sheets. Everything was ready.

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, frittering away a few more minutes. He was nervous, but not because he wasn’t looking forward to it—particularly if it went as he was hoping it would.

He was far too honest with himself to pretend he was not very keen for what was, possibly, the most important night of his life. In fact, though he was not a deeply introspective man, there were several truths about Dr. John H. Watson he had come to terms with since meeting Sherlock Holmes:

**1\. Dr. John H. Watson is very decisive.**

Having spent the better part of his adult life making life and death calls, both on and off the battlefield, John was used to quickly analyzing his circumstances and reacting with very little fuss. He’d never given it much thought, but living with Sherlock had crystallized the trait in his mind.

For instance, very few people would have followed Sherlock and his murderous cabbie as John had. Fewer still would have run into the building without backup. And it is unlikely anyone other than John would have taken the fateful shot without a moment’s hesitation. It was just who John was: assess and respond.

Which was for the best, really. If he were inclined to dithering, he’d never have lasted this long. Sherlock would have killed him—or got him killed—by now.

This, of course, was what prompted John’s sister, Harry, to argue that his continued association with Sherlock Holmes was evidence that he occasionally reacted with very little analysis or assessment at all. Particularly after the bastard faked his own death and disappeared for three years.

Instinct, John would reply. As valid a decision-making tool as any other, as far as he was concerned.

Sometimes the universe just knew what he needed. If his gut agreed, that was good enough for him.

**2\. Dr. John H. Watson is a gambler.**

After his first night with Sherlock Holmes, John had given up trying to pretend he didn’t need danger in his life. The adrenaline rush that followed a high-risk activity was something he seemed to require as certainly as (most) people needed sleep. Hiding his nature made him miserable—Sherlock (and Mycroft, he could grudgingly admit) had helped him realize that.

Chasing serial killers through the streets of London with a recovering drug addict/self-professed sociopath might seem mad to others, but Sherlock had been right: it was no more ridiculous than being up to his elbows in blood and guts in the middle of a land war in Asia.

And it was no more ridiculous than his oldest coping mechanism.

It had started with horse races when he was in uni; just a few pounds here and there. By the time he was deployed for the first time, he’d lost a considerable amount of money. He’d tried his hand at casinos and card games. He’d wagered on sporting events, politics and pop culture, and just about anything else bookies would take money on.

Fortunately, he didn’t really need it anymore. He’d struggled a little, while Sherlock was away, but gambling was no longer his fallback.

Oh, he still liked a little flutter now and then, but he had—finally—learned that, in some things, it was best to hedge one’s bets.

Every good soldier knows enough to leave an avenue of retreat.

**3\. Dr. John H. Watson _can_ keep secrets from Sherlock Holmes. **

There was no question that Sherlock was the most intelligent and observant man John had ever known. Most of the time, John found it remarkable. Sometimes it was just plain inconvenient.

Still, though Sherlock was a genius, he did confine himself to things he deemed relevant to the work with which he was entirely consumed. This meant the great detective had some blind spots, including:

  * the solar system
  * current events
  * films and television programs
  * most popular music
  * politics
  * feelings



And so he would monopolize John’s personal space, his laptop, his refrigerator and his relationships, but if John’s secrets concerned any of the above, then usually Sherlock could be relied upon to ignore them. With contempt. Or they might escape him completely, as in the case of feelings—particularly his own.

Sometimes, though, John had to rely on a little distraction.

Well, distraction and baggy trousers.

**~~4\. Dr. John H. Watson is incontrovertibly heterosexual.~~ **


	2. Problem

“Eighty-four days, nine hours and sixteen minutes.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Since I came back.”

“And?”

“Isn’t that what you were thinking about?” Sherlock glanced up from his laptop, genuinely surprised.

“No.” John struggled to keep his face impassive.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. He glanced away to the window and back down at his keyboard. He laid his hands over the keys as if to begin typing, but didn’t. “Yes, it is. It has to be.”

“Why?” John was sitting in his chair, leaning comfortably on the arm, one hand supporting his head, his index finger extended over his temple. He had been sitting in much the same position since he’d finished the washing up after his late supper.

“You have been watching me, John,” Sherlock replied irritably. “You’re looking at me as though you’re not certain I’m here.”

“Oh, I’m quite certain,” John said lightly, not moving.

“Then go and do something,” Sherlock snapped. He waved one long-fingered hand in John’s general direction. “You’re putting me off.”

“So? You’ve been working on the same problem for four days.”

“ _Why_ are you staring at me? Don’t you have to be at work?”

“You asked me not to take any more night shifts.”

“Night shifts?” Sherlock looked puzzled.

“It’s gone ten, Sherlock,” John said matter-of-factly. “Not that I would expect you to know the time, unless it was for a case.”

“The work comes first, John.”

“I know,” John replied, with just a trace of a smile. “Which is why I’m not taking any more night shifts at A & E.”

Sherlock harrumphed at that. He turned back to his work for a few minutes, but John knew his attention was still bothering the man. “Isn’t there some sort of sporting competition that urgently requires your attention? Say, at the pub?”

“Now? No. And you know I don’t like to go to the pub alone. Greg is with his wife, visiting her parents in Eastbourne, and Stamford is on holiday.”

“Lestrade is still married?”

“Yes.”

“To the same woman?”

John sighed. “Yes.”

Sherlock looked about, confused. “ _Why_?”

“Dunno,” John replied casually. “Sometimes love makes people do funny things.”

Sherlock’s mouth set in a hard line and he returned to typing. John’s focus, however, did not shift. Sherlock started to twitch. “Why don’t you go to the shops?”

John snorted. “Bit late for that. Besides, I went yesterday. We don’t need anything.”

“Date?”

“Recently divorced, remember?”

“Go for a walk.”

“It’s raining.”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

“Can’t find my brolly. Don’t fancy getting wet.”

Sherlock sighed. He slumped over his laptop and dropped his head into his hands. “John, I can’t work like this.”

“I know,” John said. “You’re frustrated.”

“YES!” Sherlock agreed loudly. “Yes, I am. YOU are frustrating me.”

“Possibly, but let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“What?”

“Let’s examine the facts.”

“John, you can’t be serious…”

“First, there’s the case,” John began evenly, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers under his chin. Sherlock glared at him. “This is the fifteenth case you’ve taken on since you got back. The first fourteen were solved within days—or even hours—but this one is really messing you about. Of course, the fact that the killer left no trace evidence at the scene didn’t help. Where do people learn about things like shaving off all your body hair before killing someone anyway? I blame those American forensics programs on the telly.”

“That has nothing to do with—”

“And I know Dimmock isn’t your favourite DI, so that’s bound to be contributing to the problem.”

“Dimmock? What the hell does he have to do with anything? This is my case! Dimmock is just for doing the paperwork!”

“And that misdirection with the Canadian passport? That was very clever. Easy to see how that might have tripped you up.”

Sherlock was scowling now. “How was I to know the name in the passport belonged to a real person? Honestly, how many people know who the Canadian governor general is? Boring.”

John chuckled, but only pointed at Sherlock’s shoes. “And look at the way you’re dressed.”

Sherlock looked down, puzzled. “What about it?”

“Sherlock, you went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet,” John pointed out. “And you love being barefoot. Saw you like that all the time before and even after you came back, but I haven’t seen you out of a suit—or your shoes—since I moved back in. What’s happened to your dressing gowns? It’s as if you’re scared to be in anything other than your ‘uniform’.”

John waited for a retort, but apparently Sherlock was disinclined to manufacture one. John decided to interpret the silence as consent to press on.

“On top of all of this, you haven’t slept more than a couple of hours at a time in almost two weeks,” John continued.

“How would you know?” Sherlock had slipped into a full sulk. “You sleep like the dead.”

“I _can_ tell when you haven’t been to bed,” John replied calmly. “And the violin has a tendency to cut through a REM cycle.”

“It didn’t used to bother you.”

“Three years, Sherlock. I’m readjusting.”

“Why are you watching me, John? What have I done? Was it the pancreas in the freezer? Have I offended someone? Recently? What is it?”

“You are a walking raw nerve,” John said softly. “I’m just trying to work out why.”

“You are trying to deduce me?” Sherlock sneered. “Please.”

“The first six cases took place before I had decided to forgive you.” John watched as the corners of Sherlock’s mouth turned down again. Sherlock didn’t like to recall those days. “The next eight cases we solved together while I was still at Mary’s, packing up. I moved back here six days before this case, so two weeks ago. Tell me, what’s the variable in this equation?”

“You!” Sherlock burst out. “Obviously! With your tea making and jumper wearing and telly watching and talking and staring…”

“I’ve never hindered your ability to solve cases before. In fact, you used to say I stimulated your genius. Remember?”

“That was then. Now you’re just…”

“Now I’m just what?” Sherlock turned to face the window, his back to John.

John couldn’t help but smile at this. He knew it was wrong, but he did enjoy getting under Sherlock’s skin. It happened so rarely. “Oh, fine,” he said. “Just going to stop talking now?”

“Now you’re just here.”

“Of course I am. You begged me to move back in!”

“I never beg!”

“Asked me, then. Repeatedly. Why did you want me to move back here if I was going to be such a problem?”

“I’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“What it was like, having someone around. So close. All the time.”

“I see,” John’s tone changed. “So I was right. I’m the problem.”

Sherlock became very still for a moment. “What are you implying?” He shifted abruptly, turning to pick up the coffee cup John had set in front of him hours before. John watched as he stared at the cold liquid with feigned interest.

“I think we should fuck.”


	3. Proposition

Sherlock didn’t attempt to prevent the cup from leaving his hand. It exploded on the floor, shards of crockery hailing across the hardwood and onto the carpet along with the remains of his cold coffee. He turned and stared at John, eyes narrowed. John returned the look without expression. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“What’s that? Shocked you, have I? Should I have been more delicate?”

“But you, we, you—don’t—this—”

“Sorry, I didn’t follow that,” John said. He released a deep sigh of resignation and leaned forward in his chair, leaning both elbows on his knees. “Why don’t I start?”

Sherlock didn’t respond, so John continued.

“I think you’ve fancied me since the day we met. I think you secretly hoped I was chatting you up that first night, but you hate distractions so you chose to deflect it. Which—let’s be honest—wasn’t that difficult. You’ve been ignoring your libido for years.” John observed Sherlock carefully. “But you liked having me around so you let me be your faithful companion, thinking I would follow you about and stroke your ego and do some of your dirty work. Bet it was quite a shock, that night at the pool, realizing how much you’d begun to care about me.”

Sherlock sniffed, trying to sound indifferent.

“And then Irene came along.”

Sherlock stood suddenly and crossed the sitting room. He threw himself into the sofa, promptly turned his back and curled into the foetal position.

John leaned back in his chair. “I know you can still hear me,” he said. “I’ll just carry on, then, shall I?”

Sherlock wrapped both arms around his thin frame and huffed.

“I had a hard time working that one out, I have to say. You were attracted to her, obviously, but it was never love. Though I do think you have a twisted sort of admiration for her—she doesn’t respect convention any more than you do,” John mused. “And yes, by the way, I am speaking in the present tense. Mycroft did figure it out. Or maybe he knew all along, I don’t know. At any rate, he didn’t tell me she was still alive until after you…died.”

Sherlock’s body tensed at the mention of The Fall. John felt a twinge of guilt—he’d been so very, very angry when Sherlock returned. He’d felt betrayed, duped. Abandoned. Sherlock’s black eye hadn’t lasted nearly as long as it had taken him just to get John to talk. It had taken considerably longer for John to begin to forgive, but he had. Eventually.

John cleared his throat. “Still, she churned you right up for a while. The question is why? You could ignore your desire for me, but not for her. She got to you in a way I didn’t.” He hesitated. “Or maybe, just maybe, she was merely a catalyst.”

Sherlock was silent. He unwrapped his arms and clenched them in front of him. Even with his back to John, the doctor knew his friend’s hands were shaking. He’d stayed on the patches since John moved back in, but if ever there was a time for the man to crave a cigarette…

“You allowed yourself to experience sexuality again because you were curious. And you discovered, much to your delight, that while The Woman stimulated your brain and your body to a certain extent, she couldn’t actually make you _feel_ anything.”

“Stop it,” Sherlock snarled.

“Only problem is, she made you realize who can." John paused again. “I’m the only one who makes you feel, aren’t I, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was beginning to tremble all over now. “Just stop.”

“Nope,” John replied. “Long overdue, this.”

“John, please…”

“Oh, ‘please’ now?”

Sherlock rolled over. “Please don’t do this.”

“I think you could ignore how much you needed me as long as you still had some part of me with you every day, but out there? On your own?” John stood and walked to the sofa. He sat on the coffee table next to Sherlock’s head. “All you had was your feelings for me. And they ate you up, didn’t they?”

John reached out a hand and brushed the curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “As soon as I moved back in you realized your mistake. You’d let sentiment get the better of you.” John sighed. “Now you can’t pretend. What we had before—it isn’t enough anymore, is it?”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper.

John gave a satisfied nod. “So we need to do something about your situation.” He paused for a moment. “Can I assume you have no interest in…dealing with this…by just having sex with someone else?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Only you.”

John nodded again. Sherlock studied him—John assumed he was looking for signs of disgust or anger, but, of course, there were none.

“Right,” John said. “Right.”

There was another long pause. John looked off out the window, considering his next words very carefully.

“Oh!” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Something wrong?”

“I—no. Just…a strange sensation, like fluttering, in my abdom—” Sherlock dropped his gaze for a moment. “Never mind.”

John looked back out the window, taking just a moment to savour the novelty of having caused the great Sherlock Holmes to experience butterflies in his tummy. He swallowed hard. _God,_ he hoped he was right about this.

“In that case, my offer stands.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” John said firmly. “You and I go upstairs to my room, we take off everything we’re wearing and we do anything you want. All night. Or as long as it takes for you to get this out of your system.”

Sherlock shot to a sitting position. “You’re not gay!”

“Strictly speaking, neither are you. You’re bisexual, when you are sexual at all,” John replied. “And apparently I’m more…flexible…than I thought.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I really do lo—I just didn’t think—” He took a deep breath. “All those yearning looks you’ve been giving me—yes, you have,” he slid in before Sherlock could protest. “God, Sherlock, you have no idea what that’s been doing to me. I don’t think anyone has ever wanted me this much.”

“Is-is that enough?”

“It is tonight.” John replied. “I’ll be honest: I haven’t had a shag in ages. And sex is still sex, right? Kissing, licking, sucking, rubbing, fucking—someone into someone, however we work that out—and coming. I like all of those things. I think—I know I would like to do them with someone I care about.”

Sherlock’s mouth hung open. Mr. Punchline was very, very quiet for some time. Butterflies and rendered speechless: John was on a roll.

“People don’t just do…this,” Sherlock said finally.

“Since when do you care what ‘people’ do?”

“But you like relationships.”

“Divorced, remember?” John shook his head. “You’re missing the point, Sherlock. This isn’t about me. And I’ve had time to consider things: you need it, I want it. Don’t overthink. We’re just two horny blokes looking to get off so you can solve a murder.”

Sherlock glanced down to discover that there was, in fact, a distinguishable bulge in John’s jeans. “Oh.” He stared down at his hands in his lap for a moment, looking very conflicted. “Just to get this out of my system,” he repeated warily, looking up to meet John’s steady gaze.

“Exactly.”

“You’ve never been with a man.”

John shook his head, his smile a bit shy now. “I, ah, no. But you have?”

Sherlock nodded. “I wasn’t, you know. What she called me.”

“A virgin? Yeah, I did get there eventually. I assumed you’d tried it at some point and decided it wasn’t worth the effort.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment, his expression one of deep concentration. “As ever, John, you…surprise me.”

John's chest swelled a bit at that. “Right. So there you are, then,” he said. “You know what you’re doing. And I’ve, you know, looked some things up. I think I understand how most of it works.”

“Would you let me…”

“I said anything.”

“I don’t have any condoms.”

“I do, but…” John flushed a little. “A month ago, when you were concussed during the Abbot case, I had the A & E run a complete blood panel—everything including hepatitis and STIs. You wouldn’t tell me all you’d got up to while you were gone; I wanted to be sure you’d been safe. And I had myself tested just before you came home, when I found out about Mary and Mark. And I haven’t…” He swallowed hard. “Just so you know, we’re both clean.”

Sherlock nodded. John could almost see the computations: one night + trusted (quantifiable) partner + sexual release = restored cognitive function. Sherlock wouldn’t be calculating for an emotional variable. He never did.

The man leaned in slowly, watching John carefully. John knew Sherlock was expecting him to panic or change his mind. But John smiled, licking his lips and reaching out to slide one hand up Sherlock’s thigh as he moved to meet him halfway. Sherlock touched his lips to John’s. It was tentative, with barely enough pressure to maintain contact. Sherlock’s eyes were still open as their lips met.

 _Soft, oh god, so soft_ , John thought madly. He fought the urge to deepen the kiss as the grey-green eyes fluttered closed. He waited, allowing Sherlock to taste him, nibbling gently at his mouth.

All too soon the first sweet touch was over. Sherlock had pulled back, one long finger resting against his parted lips.

“ _John_.”

John hummed softly. He retreated and regarded Sherlock. “Well? What’s the verdict?”

The strange, desperate noise that left Sherlock’s throat at that moment expressed more than anything he could have said. He launched himself at his friend and flatmate; fingers burrowing into sandy hair, greedy mouth capturing and claiming John’s.

John caught him with a grunt of satisfaction, strong hands steadying the lean body that was now pressed up against his own. Sherlock crawled over him, planting one knee on either side of John’s lap on the coffee table. John inclined his head to give Sherlock a better angle to explore his mouth, opening his lips to admit the clever tongue. He received it gratefully, caressed it with his own and sucked it deeper into his own heat. He drew Sherlock’s body closer, wrapping his arms around him, stroking his back under the suit jacket, tugging ever so gently to pull the purple shirt out of the trousers to slide one hand underneath.

Sherlock shuddered at the first contact of skin on skin. He sucked John’s lower lip into his mouth with a strangled moan, dropping his hand between them to feel the evidence of John’s arousal. He brushed his knuckles over the denim-covered ridge, pulling back slightly to gaze down in wonder.

“Yes, I really want you,” John said softly, his breath tickling Sherlock’s ear. He pushed Sherlock up so he could stand, extending his hand. “Come on.”

Sherlock trailed after him. “John, what—”

John stopped abruptly at the foot of the stairs, turning to place a gentle finger over Sherlock’s lips. “No more talking,” he said gruffly. “We’ve said everything we have to say. Just do. Just feel.”


	4. Promise

John turned and led Sherlock up the stairs. Sherlock followed quietly, stroking John’s back through his plaid shirt as they climbed to the landing outside John’s bedroom.

John pushed the door open. The room was lit only by one dimmed lamp, but Sherlock would still be able to see how very serious John was, and that he had been prepared for the possibility of a ‘yes’: the bed had been made with freshly laundered sheets; the bedding had been turned down, waiting for occupants; and there was a towel strategically tucked in over the bottom sheet. On the nightstand were a bottle of lube and condoms, a flannel and a box of tissues, and two bottles of water.

John turned to face Sherlock with a smile. He backed toward the bed, drawing Sherlock forward after him. When he bumped the edge of the mattress, John stopped. He slid his shoes off and kicked them out of the way. He released Sherlock’s hand and reached up to slide the dark suit jacket from the taller man’s shoulders. Sherlock stood quietly, watching with heavy-lidded eyes as John began to undress him.

The jacket slid to the floor and John tugged the purple shirt the rest of the way out of the trousers and began unbuttoning it. John could feel the tension in Sherlock’s body, but he continued slowly, deliberately, and the other man made no move to rush him. John was relieved—he wanted to take his time. It was practical, of course. He _was_ in relatively unknown territory and leading made him feel more secure. But also, he was aware of the (potential) rarity of the situation. He wanted to be able to savour every moment.

When John finally reached the last button, he grasped one fine-boned wrist and raised it. He turned it gently and undid the button there, parting the fabric to lick at the warm skin over the thrumming pulse. Sherlock bit his lip. John released the first hand and repeated this step with the other, meeting Sherlock’s heated gaze as he nibbled at the soft skin on the inside of the taller man’s wrist.

John dropped the hand and grazed his fingers back up over the pale torso now revealed by the gaping shirt. He flattened his palms over Sherlock’s chest—stunned by the warmth of the pale skin—then stretched up for a gentle kiss as he slid his hands up and over Sherlock’s shoulders to slide the shirt down his arms.

Sherlock assisted quietly by toeing off his shoes and socks watching John’s every motion. John took the silence as approval, knowing full well that Sherlock was also measuring and extrapolating every sensation. In fact…

John noted that the taller man’s eyes were now slightly unfocused. _He’s retreated into his head_ , John thought with a mental sigh.

John drew him back with a not-so-subtle tap against the centre of his chest and a very pointed look. Sherlock flushed as John slid both arms around his back and drew him down for a kiss that would firmly ground him to the physical.

It was a gnashing of lips—hot, wet, and deep. Tongues thrusting, gliding against each other, searching. Sherlock held John firmly to him, his hand cupped around John’s neck. With the other, he reached for the top button on John’s favourite shirt.

John grunted his approval as nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons and slid the shirt from his shoulders. He sucked hard on Sherlock’s tongue as Sherlock drew fingers over a now-exposed nipple and rubbed. John moaned as Sherlock squeezed the sensitive bud between finger and thumb. John leaned into the feeling, his eyes fluttering closed. Sherlock dipped his head to trail open-mouthed kisses over John’s jaw, over his neck and slowly, oh so slowly, over the clavicle and down. John allowed Sherlock to lean him backwards over the hand that now steadied him from the small of his back. Sherlock sucked and drew at sensitive flesh as he made his way to his destination.

Sherlock drew his tongue over John’s nipple. Once. Twice. John moaned again. Sherlock blew softly on the dampness, watching with pleasure as the nipple pebbled. He leaned in and covered the area with his mouth, sucking hard.

John gasped. _How did he know how sensitive…_?

He chided himself almost instantly. He might have more experience with sex overall, but he was very aware of how well Sherlock could read him. If anyone could expose and undo him in just one night, it would be this man.

Sherlock kissed his way across John’s chest to lavish attention on the other nipple. John’s breathing was ragged; one hand clinging to the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers and the other wound into Sherlock’s dark curls. Sherlock moved the hand on John’s back to drift down over the curve of John’s arse. He curled his fingertips into the cleft and kneaded one firm cheek.

John shuddered as Sherlock’s other hand slid down to stroke the hard erection straining his denims.

“Sherlock…”

John slid eager, trembling fingers around the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers and grappled with the button and zip. Sherlock pulled back to watch. His eyes met John’s as the trousers made their way to the floor, followed swiftly by silk boxers.

Sherlock was naked.

John could not help staring, fingers continuing to drift lightly over the feast of exposed flesh before him. He had never considered calling another man beautiful before—still couldn’t imagine it. But he could not think of another word to describe Sherlock.

The man shouldn’t be beautiful, really, John marvelled. He was all long limbs and hard angles and lean, lean muscle and fair, almost ghostly skin. Face a bit too long, eyes a bit too far apart, mouth a bit too soft. _Oh, god, his mouth._ But somehow, together, these limbs and features combined to create a form that John would not be able to describe any other way.

His mouth was watering as he stroked a hand over a narrow hip and turned his attention lower. Sherlock’s cock was fully erect, curled slightly upwards towards his lean belly.

John’s heart was hammering in his chest as he stared with unconcealed lust. It was official. If there had been any doubt before, it could now be laid to rest: he was undeniably, painfully, sexually attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock shivered. John glanced up and was startled as the taller man dropped his head and averted his eyes. It was not like Sherlock to be self-conscious and John would not have it—he caught one finger under Sherlock’s chin and drew him back up until they were eye to eye. He took Sherlock’s hands and placed them on the waistband of his jeans.

John smiled as Sherlock silently went to work, fumbling briefly with the button fly, before tugging the jeans down along with John’s pants. John flushed—he was now naked except for his socks. He’d never been one for sex in hosiery. He grasped Sherlock’s hip for balance and quickly divested himself of them. John let his hand rest there and looked up into Sherlock’s face, waiting.

Sherlock bit his lip.

John chuckled just a little. “Go on,” he whispered. He knew Sherlock would want to catalogue every detail and add it to his Mind Palace.

Sherlock began at the perfectly formed feet with the close-cut toenails. They were very neat; military habits died hard. This was followed by an extended observation of John’s calves and thighs. John didn’t think they were terribly exceptional, except in being rather short (in his estimation) and covered in hair one shade lighter than the hair on his head. John was rather proud of his thighs, though—they were well formed and very muscular (thank you, Your Majesty).

Sherlock scooted in and peered over John’s shoulder, reaching around to stroke the strong back and sighing heavily as he caressed John’s bum. He dragged a hand over the curve, swallowing hard. The hand trailed back over John’s hip and over the soft down of his lower abdomen, which narrowed into a trail leading to his…

Sherlock stared at John’s considerably-larger-than-average cock. He glanced up to find John smiling with smug satisfaction. Sherlock’s expression immediately changed from delighted wonder to accusation.

Oh, but John did love being able to keep secrets from Sherlock Holmes.

He chuckled softly as one elegant hand splayed against the centre of his chest and shoved. He landed on his back on the bed, quickly shimmying up to make room for Sherlock to follow. Sherlock stalked him across the mattress, his hands and knees framing John’s body. John stopped, bumping into the headboard, reaching out to stroke one sharp cheekbone before dragging Sherlock toward him.

The kiss was a little awkward, noses bumping as two men used to leading had to figure out again who was following. They persisted, fighting for dominance, sucking, biting, fuelled by relentless need. John stroked Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, swallowing the taller man’s moan and responding with one of his own.

Sherlock bore his own weight on his arms, dropping one knee to nudge John’s thighs apart. He lowered himself between John’s parted legs and slid his own throbbing cock up against John’s erection.

Their lips parted on a mutual sigh as their bodies rubbed together. The feeling was exquisite. John’s eyes began to flutter closed again as Sherlock began to move. _Lube_ , he thought vainly, _we need..._

Before John could finish the thought, Sherlock was reaching desperately for the bottle on the nightstand. He leaned back and expressed some of the clear, viscous liquid over their cocks. He dropped the bottle on the floor and quickly used that hand to smooth the lube over John.

Sherlock froze at John’s sharp intake of breath. John couldn’t help it. He knew his eyes were wide and his mouth frozen in an unspoken “oh”. He was used to hand jobs from women, of course. And he was very familiar with the feel of his own fist. But the sensation of another man’s hand—Sherlock’s hand—caressing his throbbing prick was like nothing he had ever experienced. It was so strong, so graceful, so knowing.

A crinkle appeared between Sherlock’s brows. He began to draw back, watching to see what John would do.

_Oh, god, he’s expecting rejection._

John started to speak then stopped. Words would not do. He grasped Sherlock’s face in both hands. John gently traced the delicate shape of Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue before plunging it back inside. At the same time, he arched into his lover’s hand.

His lover.

Sherlock breathed again, easing into John’s embrace. He removed his hand—John whimpered a little—and rebalanced his weight on both arms as he slid up and back, grinding their aching erections together. John was swift to respond, matching Sherlock’s rhythm, rising and falling to improve contact and friction.

John ground into Sherlock’s thrusts, kissing and stroking and biting every inch of smooth, pale skin he could reach.

“Oh, god. Sherlock, so good…” John realized quickly that he might have been too excited when they started. He wasn’t going to last long.

Sherlock groaned into the love bite he was sucking on John’s neck as John’s hands slid down over his bum. John dug his fingertips into the soft globes and pulled Sherlock’s pelvis hard against his own. Sherlock sucked John’s earlobe into his mouth as he quickened his pace.

John moaned again, lost in the movement of their bodies. He was panting, desperate.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock soothed, whispering in his ear. “I want to see you come. Come for me.” He pulled back to regard the man beneath him.

“Sherlock!” The cry tore from John’s throat as his body convulsed, his release pooling on his belly. His fingers grasped at Sherlock’s back, holding tight as his orgasm rocked them both.

Sherlock stared into John’s eyes, watching in fascination as he came apart. John watched back as the aftershocks rolled through him, afraid to close his eyes in case he missed something. They clung to each other for several minutes before John finally spoke.

“What about you?” he asked, his voice still shaky. 

Sherlock brushed damp, sandy hair off of John’s forehead with one finger, shaking his head. “This was more important. I’ve imagined this so many times—watching you come, knowing that I brought you to that point. It’s enough for now.”

John blinked at him for a moment before grunting his disapproval. “Sod that.”

He held Sherlock fast as he rolled them over, pinning the taller man halfway beneath him. Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Oh…”

John slipped his hand between them to capture Sherlock’s straining cock. He stroked firmly, with a little twist at the end over the glans. He wasn’t sure yet what Sherlock liked, but he could start with something he enjoyed and go from there.

“John! I—oh, yes. Harder, faster— _yes, there_ …”

John obliged, lifting his head as Sherlock thrust into his hand. Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut. His head arched against the pillow, revealing an expanse of throat, against which John swiftly applied his lips as he proceeded to leave his own mark on the warm skin.

“John? I…can’t…I…can’t…”

“Let go,” John murmured. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock tipped over the edge, groaning long and hard as he bucked into John’s tight fist, his sticky white release spilling over them both. John kissed and gentled as he stroked Sherlock through the orgasm. It was his first in a very long while, John knew—bound to be a bit dramatic.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock returned to himself, opening his eyes. John kissed him briefly and reached over to collect a couple of tissues from the side table. He quickly cleaned them both before rolling over onto his back. They lay side by side in silence, as John waited for his breathing to return to normal.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?” John chuckled. Silence would never last long with his mad genius.

“How long will you need before we can go again?”

“Just give us a minute, yeah?” John chuckled again.

Sherlock rolled into John’s side, resting his head on John’s chest and wrapping one long arm around his middle. He gazed over John out the window at the night sky. “The moon is up,” he said softly.

John turned his head to look. “So it is.”

“You did mean _all_ night, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked. John tried to ignore the trepidation in his voice. “You’re not going to try and make me sleep?”

John stroked the arm around his waist. “No sleeping. Just sex—as much as I can manage. I promise.”


	5. Pleasure

John tried to regulate his breathing as Sherlock continued the painstaking exploration of his body. He had expected that the man’s scientific attention to detail would make the sex unlike anything he’d ever experienced, but he hadn’t been prepared for more than an hour of teasing kisses and tracing fingertips. He was fairly certain he was going to die of a stroke before Sherlock let him come.

And to think he’d been worried about getting it up again.

Sherlock had waited (as patiently as he was able) for about an hour after their first orgasm to begin in earnest. He’d nudged John into a sitting position against the headboard and straddled his thighs. He’d leaned in for a deep, wet kiss before beginning at the top, nuzzling into John’s hair and stroking long fingers through the strands. He’d then kissed a path down John’s neck, resting his mouth against John’s throbbing pulse for a few moments, his hand covering John’s heart as if to close the circuit of John’s heartbeat through his own body. He’d sighed heavily as he traced John’s jaw with his tongue while he caressed John’s ear with his other hand, stroking the earlobe between his thumb and forefinger as he kissed John’s stubborn chin. He’d spent ten minutes on John’s face, feeling and kissing every line and mark, committing every detail to memory.

Sherlock had stroked the breadth of John’s shoulders and suckled his collarbone before coming to the scar. He’d looked at John with the question in his eyes.

“It’s fine,” John had said softly. “Doesn’t hurt to touch it.”

That was all the invitation Sherlock had needed. He’d kissed it first, reverently, before beginning an analysis that should have been the opposite of sexy. But for some reason, the sound of Sherlock’s rich, velvety voice describing the weapon and round that had caused the injury, the trajectory and range of the shot and the damage that had been inflicted, all while he outlined the puckered tissue with gentle fingers—well, it had gone straight to John’s cock.

No woman had ever expressed any interest in his scar or how he came by it. They certainly hadn’t called him extraordinary and kissed the damaged flesh as though it were the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. John had not been able to stifle his groan, nor the impulse to drag Sherlock’s beautiful mouth back to his own for some desperate snogging. Sherlock had rocked gently in his lap, ghosting his own balls over the top of John’s cock as their tongues twined before pulling back with a sigh.

“Not done yet,” he panted with a half smile. “Don’t distract me.”

The incredibly sensual torture had continued. From shoulders to fingertips, sternum to hips, then skipping over the naughty bits to begin again at John’s feet. By the time Sherlock had reached his upper thighs, John had been throbbing.

But there had been no immediate relief. Instead John had been tugged back down the bed and flipped onto his belly, where he now found himself pinned to the mattress as Sherlock sat astride him to explore his back.

“You had more than one surgery,” Sherlock whispered, tonguing the exit wound on John’s shoulder.

John hummed an affirmation, no longer trusting himself with words. He could feel Sherlock’s half-hard cock against his bum—he ground against the bed, welcoming the friction against his own painful arousal.

Sherlock chuckled. “Like that is it?” He stroked the long lines of muscle on John’s back, kneading and then gently scratching the skin with his nails. “Just a little while longer.”

John whined a little as Sherlock slid down, slowly kissing his way to the dimples above his arse cheeks. John froze, holding his breath, not entirely sure what Sherlock was going to do and not at all certain he was ready for it.

When he’d allowed himself to start thinking about this, six days before, he had—very practically—consulted the Internet for some idea as to what he might be getting himself into. John had been somewhat aware that there was more to sex with a man than just penetration, but he’d wanted to be able to offer Sherlock…everything. As a doctor, he understood the principles of anal sex, however he’d known that this clinical knowledge would not be enough.

So he’d examined photos (and, okay, just the one porn video) and diagrams, and read detailed explanations and how-tos. He’d checked out a website for ‘first-time tops’ and read a blog for ‘beginner bottoms’ (knowing Sherlock as he did, he’d strongly suspected that the latter would be more applicable, at least the first time).

He hadn’t been sure what to expect. He’d come to realize recently that his feelings for Sherlock had become more intense than he’d once thought. And he’d begun having some pretty unsettling and disturbingly graphic dreams about the man.

Still, he hadn’t known whether or not sex between two men would turn him on. But it had. More to the point, imagining doing those things with Sherlock had left him breathless and painfully hard.

But now it was not imagining. Sherlock was kissing his bum, sliding seeking fingers between the cheeks. Could he really do this?

“John?” He turned his head and met Sherlock’s worried expression over his shoulder. The concern in the man’s eyes nearly broke his heart. “Are you certain? We can stop now…”

John smiled. “Just a little nervous,” he admitted. No point in trying to lie to Sherlock—it never worked.

Sherlock climbed over him and leaned in over John’s shoulder to place a gentle kiss on his mouth. “Do you want me to stop?”

“NO!” John answered on reflex. _God, no._ He wanted it so badly he could barely breathe. “I just…don’t know what to expect.”

Sherlock nodded then dropped his forehead to John’s. “We’ll start very slowly. Yes?”

“Yes,” John agreed. Sherlock pulled back and John was rewarded with one of his very rare ‘real’ smiles.

“I think, though, I have been remiss in my examination,” Sherlock said solemnly. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to turn over again, doctor.”

John’s cock twitched in anticipation and he swiftly obliged. He rolled to his back and reached up to draw Sherlock down for more kissing. Dutch courage, perhaps. Sherlock kissed him back enthusiastically, taking the opportunity to settle himself between John’s thighs. He began kissing a path downward even as he fumbled over the side of the bed for the abandoned bottle of lube.

John moaned as Sherlock’s tongue circled and then dipped into his navel. Sherlock chuckled, continuing on his path to John’s eager cock. John couldn’t help pressing toward him—he needed to be touched so badly.

“I see we have a very serious inflammation here, doctor,” Sherlock teased. He smoothed one long-fingered hand over the wiry light brown curls to draw two fingers up John’s substantial length.

John released a ragged breath. “Please, Sherlock,” John begged. “Please, god, I’m dying.”

“Just look at you,” Sherlock sighed. “How did you keep this from me?”

John bit his lip. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock stroked over John’s hip, dipping down to caress John’s balls. “What do you want, John?”

“Touch me—please…”

Sherlock dipped his head and touched the tip of his tongue to John’s slit, already dripping with pre-come. He drew his tongue back into his mouth, hesitating briefly before swallowing. “I love the way you taste.”

John tried to watch, but his eyes were beginning to lose focus. “Yes—fuck, yes!”

Sherlock grasped John’s cock at the root and began to stroke, short and slow. John groaned. It would take him hours to come like this.

But then the dark head bent over him and John felt warm breath on the head of his cock, soft warm lips teasing him. And then…

“Jes—Sherlock!” Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth engulfed him.

John had never been one to turn down a blowjob. Even from the girls who meant well but didn’t really know what they were doing. It still mostly felt good, and he knew the size of his cock made fellatio challenging for some. But this?

Sherlock had to have received some kind of special training for this. Tongue, lips, a little graze of teeth, swallowing, suction, friction, and the occasional deep, resonant growl vibrating against his sensitive flesh: all so fucking perfect.

He’d been right. He was going to stroke out before he came.

He looked down at the dark head bobbing over him and groaned. It was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. He let his head drop back on the pillow, one hand clenched in the sheets and one stroking his lover’s hair.

His lover. He liked the sound of that.

Sherlock released his cock with a wicked slurp, carefully teasing John’s fraenulum as he did, and ducked his head to tongue John’s balls. John was muttering without any conscious thought now—every filthy word he’d ever learned in the army, randomly interspersed with Sherlock’s name and something that sounded an awful lot like a plea for mercy.

Sherlock chuckled with satisfaction, sucking on John’s balls while continuing to stroke his leaking cock. He nuzzled lower, dipping his tongue to John’s perineum. He nuzzled into the erogenous zone, applying just enough pressure to…John rocked into the sensation with a bellow that would have been sure to alarm Mrs. Hudson, had they not been in his room.

John could hear the cap on the lube and the squelching noise as Sherlock squeezed some into the palm of his free hand. There was the sound of slick fingers rubbing against one another and then…Sherlock eased one finger into John’s cleft. The slightly calloused, violinist’s finger stroked over him.

John could not help flinching. Sherlock looked up to meet John’s gaze, the question hanging between them.

“John?”

John shook his head weakly, knowing he probably still looked a bit concerned. He shifted slightly to spread his thighs even wider to give Sherlock better access. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

Sherlock sighed with a faint smile and sucked John’s cock back into his mouth. His finger continued gentle circles around John’s sensitive entrance, occasionally slipping the tip inside the tight ring of muscle.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock began to slide one finger inside. John clenched instinctively and Sherlock hesitated, allowing him to relax. Sherlock drew back from that point and eased in again. He repeated this several times as he teased John’s erection with his tongue and other hand—a gentle increase in friction, an easy rhythm. John began to moan again, his body allowing a little more of Sherlock’s finger inside each time.

John heard Sherlock take a deep breath—and that was when he began to lose consciousness. Sherlock swallowed John’s cock to the root at the same moment he eased his finger into John’s body as far as it would go.

“Jes—fuck—holy—” John’s voice failed. The initial burn in his arse was already fading, subsumed by the moist heat of Sherlock’s mouth and throat on every surface of his cock. No gag reflex; he should have bloody known.

Sherlock sucked hard, hollowing out his cheeks and swallowing around John’s cock in his throat. John could feel the finger twisting as it withdrew from his body and slid back in again and again and again. Sherlock continued fingering him gently until…

“Oh, _jesuschristfucksherlockyes_!” John’s body exploded into Sherlock’s mouth as Sherlock stimulated his prostate. John’s hips bucked wildly, his arse clenching around Sherlock’s hand as he spilled down Sherlock’s throat.

John’s vision whited out as he rode the aftershocks. He could feel Sherlock swallowing around him for a little bit, finally pulling off when John’s yelp let him know he was becoming too sensitive. The finger in his arse gently withdrew. He felt—what? Relieved? No. He felt strangely…empty.

He let the post-coital haze claim him.

When he could finally open his eyes, he found Sherlock watching him with his chin resting on one pale arm across John’s lower abdomen. It was the calm, assessing gaze he knew so well, and loved, if he were completely honest. He knew others found it cold and unnerving, but he recognized it for what it was: an expression of pure, untainted, almost child-like curiosity.

John had no idea what to say. He knew he should offer to bring Sherlock off, but there was nothing he could to do to compare with what the man had just done to him. John started to speak when Sherlock reached out to stroke John’s bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.

“John?”

“Hmmm?”

“Will you take me in your mouth?”

“God, yes.” John reached down with both hands, curling up to meet Sherlock halfway for a messy kiss. Sherlock sighed into his mouth, sliding his body up and over John’s.

John reached down to grasp Sherlock’s cock with one hand, stroking gently. He pulled back from Sherlock’s mouth. “I know what I like, but I’ve never…”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, kissing him again.

“Will you teach me?”

Sherlock stopped, pulling back with a strange expression, his pupils dilated. “Yes.”

“Good.” He sat up and pushed Sherlock into a sitting position against the headboard. Sherlock obliged, leaning back, his cock bobbing against his belly. John slid down and knelt between Sherlock’s widespread thighs. He looked up at Sherlock with a playful grin. He reached out with his right hand and offered Sherlock the first two fingers. “Show me.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. “You want me to…”

“Demonstrate, yes.” John smiled. “You lead, I’ll follow.” _In this as in everything else._

Sherlock was deathly quiet; John noted with pleasure that the man’s cock had begun to leak. Sherlock curled forward and took John’s hand in his own and guided it to his mouth as John settled into a comfortable position. John licked a stripe over the palm of his left hand before wrapping it around the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s breathing hitched as he extended his tongue to circle the tips of John’s fingers.

Immediately, John’s tongue darted out and circled the head of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s eyes widened as he flicked repeatedly over the underside of the tips of John’s fingers—John responded in kind, teasing at Sherlock’s fraenulum. John’s eyes had drifted closed; he was relying purely on feeling now. Sherlock drew a ragged breath as he created a tight rim with his lips and popped the tips of John’s fingers through it several times. He moaned as John mimicked his action below.

Finally, with a grunt of what John had to assume was impatience Sherlock sucked John’s fingers into his mouth hard. He swallowed around them, allowing his tongue to stroke the underside as he drew up and then sucked them back down again. He hollowed out his cheeks as he pulled John into his mouth again and again.

John translated everything he could feel on his hand onto Sherlock’s cock. He could hear Sherlock’s strangled moans around his fingers as John swallowed his cock. He wanted to take more of Sherlock’s length in, but knew he would have to practice some before he was ready for that. Sherlock seemed to know this—John’s fingers never touched the back of his throat.

Sherlock pulled John’s fingers almost all the way out, swirling around the tips again and again and again before flattening his tongue along the underside and letting them ride it back into his mouth. He sucked hard, watching as John repeated this on his erection. He tugged gently at the base of John’s fingers, though John needed no guidance here—his left hand had kept up a steady stroke on Sherlock’s shaft from the outset, dribbled with saliva and pre-come.

After long minutes of this sweet torture, Sherlock let John’s fingers slide from his mouth on a long, hard groan as he fell back against the headboard. “Ohhhh, god. John!”

John let his wet hand slide down Sherlock’s chest to tweak taught nipples. He increased his tempo before pulling off to suck Sherlock’s balls into his mouth one at a time.

Sherlock’s head thumped into the wall as he threw it back, eyes closed. He dug the fingers of both hands into John’s hair. “John, fuck…”

The sound of that word on Sherlock’s lips drove John on. He slid his mouth back up the length of Sherlock’s shaft, teasing the fraenulum again before sucking him in hard and fast. He pumped and sucked, humming a little with pleasure at the broken, unguarded noises his lover was making.

“John, I’m—” Sherlock tugged at John’s hair in warning, but John persisted. He was prepared to try it at least once. _In for a penny…_

Sherlock’s body arched up helplessly as his orgasm overwhelmed him. John struggled to swallow his release, watching now as Sherlock came apart above him, thinking he had never seen anything quite so erotic before. There was a strange smile on the younger man’s face—neither Sherlock’s ‘fake’ smile nor his only-for-John ‘real’ one. John wanted very much to see it again.

John evaluated the experience of giving his first blowjob as he gently let Sherlock slip from his mouth. He hadn’t minded the taste of the semen in his mouth, and once he got the hang of it, swallowing it hadn’t been so bad. And the finger thing had been very helpful.

“Genius,” Sherlock agreed, finally returning to earth moments later.

John crawled up as Sherlock slid down some so they could settle onto the bed together. “Am I?”

Sherlock nodded, unable to say more. He nuzzled into John’s hair, wrapping one arm around his shoulders.

John cuddled him closer with a grin.


	6. Prize

“Sherlock!” John started awake. He was in his own bed, but…

“Shhhh, I’m here, John.” The sexy baritone came from just above John’s ear. “Nightmare?”

John considered that for a moment. He’d been dreaming, but it wasn’t about the war, or about Sherlock falling. No, he’d been dreaming about a small, whitewashed cottage in the country. And bees.

Bees?

“No, actually,” John replied happily. “No nightmare tonight.”

He wriggled a little, realizing that he was nestled quite securely in Sherlock’s arms. He was sprawled over the taller man, his head resting against the warmth of Sherlock’s neck, one leg draped over his hips and one arm tucked in around his ribs.

“I-I’m sorry,” John stammered, feeling a bit embarrassed at having so completely wrapped himself around Sherlock. He started to pull back, moving his leg. “I know I promised no sleeping.”

Sherlock moved one hand to clasp John’s leg in place, rubbing the thigh affectionately. “You promised you wouldn’t try to make _me_ sleep. You were tired—quite understandable. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”

Long fingers carded through John’s hair. John sighed in spite of himself and relaxed into the caress. The last thing he remembered was each of them taking a quick trip to the loo after he’d sucked Sherlock to an explosive orgasm. Everything after that was a little unclear.

“How long have I been out?”

“Two hours and forty-four minutes.” Sherlock’s voice sounded strange.

“I’m sorry,” John muttered. “What time is it?”

“Don’t be sorry, John,” Sherlock said flatly. “It’s nearly five.”

John pulled back so he could see Sherlock’s face. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock nodded, staring over John’s shoulder out the window.

John dropped his head back against Sherlock’s collarbone and kissed his neck, feeling guilty. “What have you been doing while I slept?”

“Not much.” Sherlock nudged John’s shoulders with his arm, as a reminder that his range of motion had been severely limited for the duration of John’s nap.

John chuckled, stroking his hand over Sherlock’s chest. “All right, then, what have you been thinking about?” It was obscene how quickly he had become addicted to the feel and touch and taste of the man beneath him. Probably shouldn’t have come as such a shock, John supposed—he’d been addicted to his flatmate in every other way since they met.

“Estimating your sperm count given your age and general health, and the viscosity and temperature of your ejaculate.”

“Sexy.”

“I was also reviewing my observations from the case.”

John waited. “Anything else?”

“I was thinking about a great many things, John.”

“But didn’t you—weren’t you wanting to—” John found himself feeling suddenly and strangely awkward.

“Wasn’t I wanting to what, John?” The deep voice sounded very amused now.

John blushed; grateful Sherlock couldn’t see his face. “To fuck me?”

The hand on John’s thigh moved with purpose now, sliding up and over his hip. Fingers teased over the crest of John’s bum, hesitating there. “Do you want me to?”

John couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a trace of insecurity—that infinitesimal shred of self-doubt that John had always believed Sherlock was working very hard to hide from everyone. He pulled up, propping on his elbow so he could look down into the changeable eyes. He placed one hand against the side of Sherlock’s neck, caressing his lover’s jaw with his thumb.

“More than anything.”

Sherlock released a heavy breath, locking his hand behind John’s neck and dragging him down to his mouth. Sherlock rolled John over until they were lying face to face on their sides. Sherlock slipped a hand between them and pinched John’s nipple, which earned him a nip on his lower lip. He growled and John chuckled again.

Sherlock rolled again so that John was on his back. Sherlock teased John’s mouth with his tongue as he lightly stroked John’s side down from his armpit. John squeaked and recoiled.

“What?” Sherlock withdrew, immediately concerned. “Have I hurt you?”

John bit his lip, trying to decide whether or not to speak.

“John!”

“I’m ticklish, there, all right?”

Sherlock’s head cocked to one side. “Ticklish? Oh, I see. So when I touch you like this…” He grazed his fingertips over John’s ribs and John tried to pull away.

“NO!!! Don’t! Sherlock, please!”

“Or like this?” Sherlock repeated the action on John’s other side—the doctor was writhing under him, fortuitously pressing his body against Sherlock’s burgeoning erection.

“Stop—git!!”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sherlock said with a wicked grin. His fingers danced over John’s sensitive skin as John slapped at and tried to evade them, panting and giggling hysterically.

John shifted, throwing Sherlock off balance. He shoved the taller man hard and Sherlock fell to one side. John took advantage with a shout, climbing over him and catching his arms above his head. Sherlock struggled a little, succeeding only in grinding his rapidly hardening cock into John’s thigh. John held him fast, pinning him effectively to the mattress.

“Now, then,” John crooned, leaning down for a kiss. “There will be no more of that, will there?”

Sherlock shook his head, his smile fading; the expression on his face changed as his eyes darkened.

“Sherlock? What is it?”

“I—” Sherlock’s voice was ragged. “This, John. I want this, too.”

“What? To be pinned down…ohhhh.” John trailed off as understanding dawned.

“I want to feel you on top of me, inside me, taking control of me. I want all of it.”

John felt his cock respond. He wanted it, too. Everything. Always. _Oh, god, please, always._

“But I need to be inside you tonight—need to feel you around me. If this is going to be the only time we...”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, it…” He tried to complete the thought—that this thing between them didn’t have to end tonight—but was stopped by soft lips covering his own.

“Please, John.”

It was a whisper. A plea. And John had never been very good at saying no to Sherlock.

John returned the kiss, slanting his lips over Sherlock’s with all of the longing he felt. It was more than desire. The kiss was full of tenderness and concern and just a little desperation. Sherlock, too—he clung to John as though he were going to disappear.

Finally, Sherlock pulled back, breathless. “John. I—I need to…prepare you.”

“Uh, right,” John acknowledged, trying to remember what that blog had said. “Like before.”

“Yes. More, but yes. It may take some time. And it may be uncomfortable.”

“I know.” John smiled down at him. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock regarded John with a strange expression. “Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Then you should probably visit the loo first and…”

“I—uhm—yes, I did read about—I should just…do…that.” John blushed again, not minding so much this time that Sherlock was watching. Sherlock’s face was also quite red as John shifted to the side of the bed and stood. He was about to walk away when he hesitated and leaned back in to kiss Sherlock’s mouth softly.

“Back soon,” he whispered.

He padded down to the loo, whistling—whistling?—and running over the instructions from that blog he’d read. He was still a bit nervous about the whole thing, but he was also pretty turned on by the thought of Sherlock waiting upstairs for him.

Fifteen minutes later, feeling very clean indeed, John returned upstairs. Sherlock was kneeling in the centre of the bed looking tense and uncomfortable, staring out the window at the pre-dawn sky.

“I thought you’d…” he started, turning as John approached. He looked at the mattress. “I thought you might have had second thoughts.”

“Nope.” John knelt on the bed in front of Sherlock and stroked his hand through the unruly curls—he really was developing something of a fetish for the man’s hair. Sherlock leaned into the caress, eyes closed.

“I want you, John. So much.”

“I know.”

“But I…”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “John, even I know this is too much to ask.”

John leaned in for a kiss. “I’ve killed for you, you lunatic,” he whispered against the other man’s mouth. “And you didn’t even ask me. Why don’t you let me worry about what is too much?”

Sherlock ghosted his tongue over John’s. “I’ll make it good for you.”

“I know you will. I know you’d never hurt me,” John mused. “Drug my coffee and lock me in a dark lab and try to scare me to death, maybe…”

“John,” Sherlock growled, pulling him closer.

John slid sideways to stretch out on the bed on his back, drawing Sherlock down over him. Their kisses were slower now. Patient. Loving. Sherlock stroked John’s mouth deliberately, thrusting gently in emulation of the act to come. He nipped at John’s lips, sucked at them, searched John’s mouth with his tongue.

John allowed himself the pleasure of letting someone else fully take the sexual lead. He responded, voiced his pleasure at each touch, and stroked the pale skin. He cried Sherlock’s name as the man’s hand closed around his cock, stroking firmly.

“John, you are perfect,” Sherlock murmured against his cheek. “Why? Why are letting me do this?"

"Sherlock, I—” John swallowed hard. Not yet. Too soon. _Don’t show your hand, Watson_. “Just do. Just feel.” He stroked a hand over the lean, muscular chest, teasing the dusky nipples.

Sherlock groaned. He pulled back to look into John’s eyes. “This…it might be easier…”

John stroked his cheek. “Hands and knees?”

Sherlock nodded, his brows drawing together. John smiled at the detective’s puzzled face. He leaned up for a reassuring kiss before pushing Sherlock up so he could roll over. John slid onto his belly then drew up onto his elbows with his knees bent under him and spread wide. With his bum in the air, he was completely exposed. He shivered a little, both from the chill of the cool air over a very warm part of his body and from the feeling of vulnerability being in this position engendered.

He glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock was kneeling behind him now, lips slightly parted. Their eyes met as he began coating his fingers with lube. John swallowed hard.

Sherlock leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on the small of John’s back, stroking his slick digits through John’s warm cleft. John willed his body to relax as the first finger began to press home.

Slowly, slowly, Sherlock eased the finger in, hesitating as John tightened a little. He stroked John’s back for a few moments until John could feel his body releasing. The finger eased in until John could feel Sherlock’s hand against him. He breathed deeply, allowing himself to get used to the sensation again. There was no pain this time, only a little discomfort as his body readjusted. Sherlock twisted the digit and began to draw it out again. John sighed at the unexpected pleasure of the movement.

Sherlock entered him again, this time twisting and curling his finger to graze over John’s prostate.

“Oh, god, oh, god..” John moaned. His cock—which had gone somewhat flaccid—pulsed to life against his belly.

Sherlock continued to fuck him gently with just one finger for several minutes. John soon found himself pressing back into each stroke.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?” They were both panting now.

“More. Please. More.”

Sherlock withdrew his hand. John heard him applying more lube and then felt the unmistakable pressure of two fingers against his anus. The fingertips pressed through the ring of muscle. John grunted a little at the additional burn, feeling Sherlock pause immediately. Sherlock kissed his back again, sliding his other hand around John’s waist to seek his cock. Sherlock stroked him gently, muttering something John could not understand—was it in French?

John felt his body easing around the intrusion. He slid back slowly onto Sherlock’s hand, the other man holding very still and allowing him to move when he was ready. He pushed back until he felt the second knuckles at his entrance. He grunted again at the stretch, but continued carefully. He shivered as he felt the fingers slip inside his body as far as they would go. It burned, and yet…it was so fucking good.

He’d had no idea—no idea at all.

Sherlock continued to stroke his shaft, but allowed John to control the depth and pace of penetration. John rocked forward, Sherlock’s hand sliding out of his now-slick passage briefly before John eased back again, taking him in.

“Sherlock…” John’s voice was broken, desperate.

“Shhhh,” Sherlock gently twisted and spread his fingers inside John, stretching the muscles. “Take your time.”

John reached back and tugged at Sherlock’s wrist. “Fuck me—please!”

Sherlock immediately complied, slowly withdrawing and then pressing home again. He continued working against John’s tight ring of muscle as he did.

John met that thrust, and the next, surprised by how quickly the mild discomfort dissipated. His entire body ached with want, his internal muscles clenching around Sherlock’s fingers as his cock continued leaking with Sherlock’s ministrations. He moved faster, grinding against the invasion of his body, desperate for more.

This continued for some time—John had no idea how long. He was lost to the new, overwhelming sensations. Eventually he was vaguely aware of Sherlock withdrawing his hand again. John protested, only to be rewarded by the slight sting of a third finger breaching him.

“Sherlock—I can’t—oh god—”

Sherlock stilled with only the tips inside John. “It’s all right.”

John circled his hips, trying to find some way to ease the pressure. He felt Sherlock’s lips against his neck as the taller man leaned over him, whispering something in his ear. French again.

“What…?”

“It means ‘you are precious to me’,” Sherlock said softly. He twisted the fingers inside John’s entrance gently, easing ever so slightly further in.

John grunted. “Wait!”

Sherlock stopped immediately. “What is it?”

John panted. His head was spinning—his body was telling him to evacuate his rectum, but his brain…oh, fuck, he wanted more.

“It’s okay, John,” Sherlock said, clearly realizing what John was experiencing. “It’s perfectly natural. Just relax.”

John’s thighs were quivering with the strain of holding still. He could feel the urge passing and his muscles beginning to relax again. “Okay,” he sighed. He glanced at Sherlock over his shoulder, surprised by the concern in the younger man’s eyes. “I’m fine now—please…”

“Yes,” Sherlock leaned in suddenly and awkwardly placed a heated kiss on John’s mouth. “Yes.”

The hand began to move again. John muttered something not even he understood as his body instinctively pushed into it. Sherlock fucked him for long minutes. John sighed and swore; unable to control what Sherlock was making him feel.

Finally, the wonderful fullness disappeared.

“What? No—please.” He didn’t have the strength to feel embarrassed by the pleading tone in his voice.

Strong hands guided him back to rest on his heels. John relaxed into the strong chest behind him as Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him and warm lips caressed his neck.

“Are you ready?”

“Fuck, yes,” John moaned.

Sherlock tugged once more on John’s leaking cock before pulling away. “Slide back,” the deep voice commanded.

John shuffled into the spot Sherlock had occupied as the man moved gracefully around and in front of him. Sherlock settled against the headboard, facing John. He slid his feet between John’s knees and stretched out his long legs. He extended his hands and John took them.

“This will be easier for you,” Sherlock insisted.

He drew John forward into his lap and up onto his feet into a squatting position. John nodded, still feeling somewhat overwhelmed and a little helpless. He allowed himself to be positioned over Sherlock’s rigid, red cock. He grasped the headboard above Sherlock’s shoulders, steadying himself as he watched Sherlock coat himself with more lube and quickly wipe his hands.

Sherlock took him by his hips and leaned up to kiss him again. “In your own time.”

John gave a weak smile. “But quite quickly?”

Sherlock smiled, kissing him again. “No, John. It’s all up to you now.”

John eased himself down, leaning into Sherlock’s strong hands as he reached around with one of his own to guide Sherlock to his entrance. He felt the slick tip nudging him and his legs began to tremble. This was more than the fingers—it was going to hurt. He flinched a little as the head slid into his body.

“Oh!” His eyes flew open in surprise at the slight popping sensation.

Sherlock moaned, head thrown back as he began to slide into John’s body. “John, you feel so good…”

John held on, struggling as his body adjusted. There was some pain this time; he didn’t want to rush.

Sherlock reached out and continued stroking John’s cock. “Easier if you bear down,” he panted.

John nodded, understanding. He strained against the intrusion, triggering the nerves that helped to release the sphincter. Sherlock’s throbbing heat began to slide home.

They gasped together as John inched down onto Sherlock’s waiting prick. The pressure, the fullness was inexplicable. John could not help crying out as he finally felt Sherlock’s balls against his arse. Sherlock was inside him—completely inside him.

They stared at one another for a long moment before mouths and tongues met. Sherlock moaned into his mouth as John eased himself up and then back down again.

“Sherlock—so good, I can’t…”

Sherlock seemed to understand, restoring his grip on both John’s hips to help lift and lower him, rocking his own hips up to meet him. John released one hand from the headboard to fist his own cock as the discomfort began to fade and pleasure take over. He moved faster, dropping harder and clenching slightly as he withdrew each time, eliciting a hiss from the man beneath him. Sherlock continued to support him as he rode the younger man with increasing abandon.

Sherlock’s brow was glistening with sweat, his mouth parted in an unspoken sigh. John watched him, incredibly turned on by the unguarded desire on his lover’s face.

“So beautiful,” he breathed.

They kissed tenderly, Sherlock moaning into his mouth. John shifted slightly, managing to stimulate his prostate as he sank down.

“FUCK!” His legs collapsed and he fell into Sherlock’s lap in a heap, completely boneless. He leaned in to rest against Sherlock’s chest. “More, Sherlock. Please—I need more.”

Sherlock growled, grasping John hard enough to leave bruises as he rolled them over, pinning John beneath him. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s ribs as the other man braced on his hands above him. Sherlock re-entered him quickly, hardly losing pace as he began to fuck John with intention.

There was nothing gentle in the rhythm anymore. They were both too far gone for that now. John clutched at Sherlock’s triceps, digging his fingers into the lean muscle as he learned how to rotate his hips to find the sweet spot with regularity. He was calling Sherlock’s name—begging to be fucked hard, demanding to be filled. Sherlock lifted John’s hips up to improve the angle, continuing to bury himself to the hilt with each stroke.

John lost all sense of time, of everything. He reached for his own cock again as he felt his release approaching. He stroked in pace with Sherlock.

“Coming—fuck—I have to,” he panted.

Sherlock quickened his pace. John could feel his balls tightening.

“Now, oh, god…”

John felt the breath leave his body as his orgasm overtook him. He couldn’t inhale, couldn’t think—each wave harder and longer than the last. Again and again, his body convulsed as he spilled out over his hand and onto his belly. He cried out as Sherlock continued to thrust into him, brushing his prostate again—his overly sensitive body clamping down in response to the pleasure that was almost too much.

Sherlock howled at the tightening around his cock. With three more hard thrusts, he came, spending himself inside John’s quivering body.

“John, John, John, John, John….” The beautiful voice cracked as Sherlock’s body was wracked by his own release. He buried his face in John’s shoulder, holding fast as the tremors shook him.

John slowly regained awareness. He clung to the lean body shuddering above him as he marvelled at what he had just experienced.

“Sherlock,” he breathed. “That was…I didn’t know—I didn’t know. I—I’ve never come like that in my life. Not with anyone.”

Sherlock was curled over John’s body; his face still buried in John’s shoulder, his slowly softening cock sliding from John’s come-slick passage. He was still shaking, John realized. He eased his legs down from where they had wrapped around Sherlock’s body, his one hand still on Sherlock’s upper arm.

“Are you all right?” John waited, listening for a response and hearing nothing until he suddenly realized that the sounds Sherlock was making were barely suppressed sobs. He was crying. “Sherlock? Wait, no, don’t—it’s okay.”

He drew Sherlock down into the circle of his arms, welcoming the weight of the body as it collapsed on top of him into the sticky evidence of his release between them. But Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. His arms wrapped around John’s torso, his hands sliding underneath so long fingers could cling and press bruises into John’s back. The shuddering breaths vibrated through Sherlock and right into John’s body.

“This was supposed to make you feel better,” John said, a bit helplessly. “What is it? Hmmm? Can you tell me?”

“Never enough.”

“What?”

Sherlock pulled back, his eyes filled with tears, damp streaks trailing to his jaw. “One night. It will never be enough, John. Never.” He buried his head again, unable to hold John’s gaze.

John smiled, winding his fingers into Sherlock’s sweat-dampened curls as the taller man drifted to sleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fabulous agnesanutter commissioned this lovely fanart for my fic--check it out! http://benedictcumberbatchruinedmensfw.tumblr.com/image/73508929516


	7. Proposal

John woke slowly, feeling like he’d been drugged (and he had more than a passing familiarity with that sensation). He stretched, wincing a little at his tender bottom and the dull ache of bruises and a few bite marks.

“Sherlock?” He turned to look on the other side of the bed to discover it was empty, the sheets and duvet in a heap where Sherlock had been. His heart sank.

He rolled over and grabbed his phone from the nightstand. There were no new messages. He lay back with his phone in hand, staring at the ceiling.

So that was it.

Of course Sherlock would think nothing of leaving before he woke. The man probably had a kidney in a pickle jar somewhere that needed tending. Or perhaps Dimmock had called with some news about the case.

Whatever the reason, Sherlock had left without ceremony, without a word. Clearly last night’s activities had proven to be the solution to his problem. No more John needed, thank you.

So there was one more thing John could add to his list:

**5\. Dr. John H. Watson is a fool.**

He’d known it was risky, the bargain he’d made. He had fallen asleep happy, thinking Sherlock would mean what he’d said: one night would never be enough.

It was exactly what he’d hoped for when he’d come up with the crazy scheme in the first place. When he’d realized how much Sherlock wanted him—loved him, he thought. And when he’d come to realize that he felt exactly the same way.

He’d honestly believed that once they had…that Sherlock would…

But he’d made a mistake. Sherlock was still married to his work. John was just a one-night stand, the scratching of a biological itch.

John got up slowly, pulling on his robe and draining the last mouthful from his bottle of water. He looked with deepening sadness at the rumpled bed before tossing the duvet onto the floor and stripping the sheets. He held them for a moment, inhaling the scent of Sherlock and the heady musk of sex on his bedding. He couldn’t prevent the lump that formed in his throat as he realized he would never smell those things together again.

John made his way down the stairs to find the flat empty. He put the sheets in to wash and ran himself a hot bath.

As he soaked, he allowed just a few self-indulgent tears to trickle over his cheeks.

It was ridiculous, really. This, this right here was exactly why he'd done what he had in the first place.

Sherlock hated sentiment: relationships were for idiots and love was a weakness. He’d been intellectually impeded by his feelings for John, but he probably would have continued that way forever rather than risk an emotional entanglement.

John had thought the plan was foolproof. John could be with the man he had fallen in love with. Sherlock would get relief and perhaps, just perhaps, come to realize that he needed more. That being with John, as more than friends and colleagues for more than one night, might be okay. If not, well, John had offered nothing but sex and asked for nothing in return: no recrimination, no awkwardness and no hard feelings.

At least there shouldn’t have been.

If he’d loved Sherlock before, he had no idea what to call it now. The pain in his chest was so acute it felt like fractured ribs. Every single breath hurt. He couldn’t imagine, just couldn’t think, what he was supposed to do now. He’d never felt like this before. Not even, he thought with some shame, when he’d learned his wife was cheating on him and wanted a divorce.

No, there was nothing for it. He’d got himself into this; he would have to live with the consequences. There was no way he could leave Sherlock now, so he would have to endure, knowing that however the man might feel about him, it would never be spoken of—or acted on—again.

John realized he was starting to prune. He washed quickly and drained the tub. He shaved, cleaned his teeth and willed the reflection in the mirror not to look so sad.

He tugged his robe on again, suddenly desperate for a cup of tea. He padded out to the kitchen and flipped the kettle on. He pulled his favourite mug out from the cupboard and turned to the refrigerator. He opened the door and sighed: cow’s tongues on the second shelf.

“Good morning, John.”

John spun, only just avoiding dropping the milk. “Sherlock, shit you scared me!”

“It was not my intention to startle you.”

John stared at him for a minute. He'd obviously returned from outside and was still wearing his coat. He was sitting at his desk, facing the kitchen.

John swallowed. “No, uh, it’s fine. Just didn’t realize you were home.”

“I’ve just returned. I was waiting for you to get out of the bath.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Sorry—did you need the loo? You should have knocked…”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

John tried hard to breathe normally. _Please, let this be brief. We’ll both say it’s fine, all done now, nobody’s hurt, we can still be friends and then I can pretend it never happened. I will never, ever forget, but I can pretend_.

“Fine. All right. Want some tea?”

“No, John, I don’t want tea.”

The kettle boiled and John turned gratefully to fill the pot. He eased the three minutes of tension by adding the milk to his cup and returning the bottle to the fridge.

“John, are you all right?”

“Fine, yeah,” John replied casually. “Bit sore, you know, but fine.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Sherlock said, standing.

John poured his tea and turned to make his way to his chair. He needed to be sitting for this. Sherlock strode toward him, meeting him halfway.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock stared down at him with a furrowed brow. “You’ve been crying.”

“Oh, for—how could you possibly know that?” John’s reserve cracked immediately. “My eyes aren’t even red. I checked.”

“So you have.”

John sipped his tea, refusing to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter. It was nothing.”

John slipped past him and gingerly settled into his chair, grimacing a bit as he shifted to find a comfortable position.

“It doesn’t matter or it was nothing?” Sherlock dropped into his chair across from John.

“Is that really important?” John asked weakly.

“I believe it is, considering.”

“Considering what? That we shagged each other’s brains out last night?”

“Well, yes, and—”

“Nothing to do with it. Don’t worry about it.” John drank his tea. “So where did you get to this morning? Dimmock?”

“I—yes.”

“You figured it out, then.”

“Yes. The solution presented itself at approximately seven-thirty a.m.”

“Well, great. Mission accomplished.” John hoped he didn’t sound bitter.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied. “I was getting dressed, preparing to go out, when I realized that the victim must have had an older sister who was a seamstress.”

“You were already on your way out?” John ignored the case details—he had no idea how a seamstress fit into things. He’d let Sherlock explain it to him later.

“Yes. I had something very urgent to attend to.”

“Oh.” John felt a tightening around his heart. An errand that was more important than waking up with him. Chucked, and it wasn’t even for a case.

“You aren’t going to ask what it was? That’s not like you, John. You’re usually much more curious.”

“Fine,” John said. He took another sip of tea. “What were you doing?”

Sherlock pulled a small box from his coat pocket. He held it for a moment before simply handing it to John.

John quirked an eyebrow at him. “What’s this?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just open it.”

John set his tea on the floor with a look of annoyance and opened the box. And promptly forgot how to breathe. The ring was old, obviously an antique. It was platinum, of simple design, with a small sapphire at the centre.

“You are more than well aware this sort of thing is not my area.” Sherlock hesitated. “I consulted with Mycroft. He assures me this is an appropriate token under the circumstances.”

“Oh, god.”

“It belonged to my great-grandfather. It reminded me of the colour of your eyes, sometimes.”

John sank back into his chair, stunned. “Is this—are you—?”

“You said all night or 'as long as it takes' to get you out of my system,” Sherlock replied calmly. “I can reliably inform you that I do not believe that will ever happen. I am given to understand this is an accepted method of expressing a desire for a long-term commitment.”

John started to giggle. It was high-pitched, nearly hysterical.

Sherlock frowned. “You don’t like it. Mycroft…”

“No—jes—Sherlock—I love it,” John slid forward in his chair swiftly and grasped Sherlock’s hand. “I thought…when I woke up and you were gone, I just assumed that one night was enough for you. That you wanted to stay, you know, as we were.”

Sherlock looked stunned. “You actually believed, after last night, there was even a remote possibility that I could look at you everyday and not need to kiss you or touch you or tell you that I—I–love you?”

“You love me?”

“Of course I do—for heaven’s sake, John. Keep up!” Sherlock leapt to his feet, indignant. “You deduced it just last night. That’s what got us into all this.”

“But you kept saying, if it was ‘only for one night’…”

Sherlock turned and leaned on the mantle. “But _you_ are the one who suggested this ridiculous arrangement. You know the state I was in! I’d have agreed to attend every one of Mycroft’s cocktail parties for the rest of my life if it meant I could be with you.”

“You were thinking about it, though,” John countered. He stood and placed himself beside Sherlock.

The taller man turned. “I am not skilled in relationships, John. I do not feel things the way others do and I do not understand how all this works.” He waved a hand between them. “I thought I could accept what you were offering and go back to…you would be better off, you know. There is a very high probability that this will end badly and you will be…hurt.”

“And you don’t want to hurt me,” John said softly. He took the ring from the box and slipped it onto his left hand.

Sherlock watched, his eyes wide. “Not again, no. I—I know I will, but the thought of you being hurt is…unacceptable.”

“Fair enough.” John smiled up at him. “That sounds very much like a promise to try to me. In return, I promise never, ever again to try to get you to want to be with me using an indecent proposal.”

Sherlock mouth crooked up on one side. “But I rather liked the indecent bit.”

“Oh, so did I,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “Especially the part where you told me how much you wanted me inside you.” John’s grin was wicked. A faint flush coloured Sherlock’s cheeks. “I think the indecent bit will need to be revisited. Often.” John winced as he stretched up for a kiss. “Just maybe not all on the same night, yeah? I haven’t had a run like that since I was 25.”

Sherlock dropped his head and slanted his mouth across John’s, dragging the robe-clad body into the cocoon created by his billowing coat. John sagged into the warmth and eagerly wrapped both arms around the taller man’s waist.

Sherlock pulled back with a naughty grin. “Something to strive for, then.”

“You are a bad, bad man.”

“But you love me.”

“God help me, I do.”

“Will that be your response at the register office? Not terribly reassuring.”

“Speaking of that…”

“Are you formally accepting my proposal?”

“I suppose I am,” John agreed, beaming. “After all, you accepted mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fan fiction only. No copyright infringement intended. I don't have a beta or a brit-picker--all errors are my own. Please forgive!
> 
> Now translated--in part, I think: http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=64058&page=1&extra=

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [As long as it takes [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228546) by [Usagi_Atemu_Tom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usagi_Atemu_Tom/pseuds/Usagi_Atemu_Tom)




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